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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576041">I've Got No Glory</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope'>IncandescentAntelope</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Arguing, Canon Compliant, Depression, Depressive Episode, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, Mild Angst, Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:22:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,055</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27576041</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncandescentAntelope/pseuds/IncandescentAntelope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of a sprained ankle, Yuuri finds himself struggling to stay afloat and Viktor does his best to help.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>149</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I've Got No Glory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I’ll be real honest this is very much a fic for me, and a fic about me, don’t look at me like that. Depressive episodes are hard to fight and harder to shake, and I wanted to give voice to my uglier thoughts. Be gentle with yourself. Thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riki/pseuds/Riki">Riki</a> and <a href="https://twitter.com/amai892">Amai</a> for helping me give this some kind of shape, and to my beta readers! Title borrowed from Singin’ in The Rain!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“What do you want to watch, Yuuri?” Viktor asked, flicking through the seemingly unending list of shows and movies to stream. “Please don’t say </span>
  <em>
    <span>Miracle on Ice </span>
  </em>
  <span>again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuuri laughed, but the sound was shallow. Hollow. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Mighty Ducks</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” he asked, holding a throw pillow to his chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No hockey movies. No more.” Viktor pouted, “We’ve watched them all four times. At least.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. No hockey movies.” Yuuri conceded, his best attempt at a smile on his face. It was simply something to placate Viktor, to make him smile too. “You pick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viktor hummed and scrolled for a while longer, eventually landing on a classic movie. Viktor liked these Old Hollywood classics, the glamour of it all. It was something Yuuri had known for years, Viktor was quite vocal about his favorite movies in interviews when he was young. He was humming the opening score under his breath as he cuddled in closer to Yuuri’s side, a bowl of plain popcorn in his lap.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His leg was propped up on the ottoman, his ankle wrapped up tight. Viktor had an extensive collection of soft hand-knit socks from his babushka, and Yuuri was glad for the warmth around his toes, if nothing else.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Something to drink?” Viktor asked as the beginning credits rolled. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I’m fine,” Yuuri answered without thinking, barely focused on the movie. He felt heavy, sore, just from sitting on the couch. He had gone with Viktor to watch him practice that day, and it only made things feel worse. He was exhausted and wrung dry just from an hour with a physical therapist, and sitting on the cold, hard bleachers, watching for mistakes in Viktor’s skate had drained him completely. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viktor stared at his fiance, watching the way he was retreating into his shell. Yuuri did this every now and then, when things were bad. He had done it before, pulling away and going silent… but the way he was brushing him off now felt even worse than it had before. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuuri had been stuck on the couch for nearly two weeks and a month of recovery was still ahead of him, at the very least. Viktor remembered that frustration from his time recovering from an untimely knee injury just after his senior debut. It was infuriating to watch his teammates improve while he was stuck in a cast, sitting on the bleachers and stuck in physical therapy appointments. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He leaned in closer, letting his head fall onto Yuuri’s shoulder. He winced subtly, in a way that had Viktor’s heart sinking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is everything okay?” Viktor asked quietly, the movie suddenly completely forgotten. “Is it your ankle?” Both of them knew it wasn’t just his ankle, but Viktor had never been great about deciphering Yuuri’s emotions. That didn’t mean no attempts were made, but the attempts left a bit to be desired. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Yuuri answered, still tensing with Viktor’s touch. His fists were clenched tight, his voice was sharp, his brow furrowed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That tension caught in Viktor’s throat, something painful and sharp that he couldn’t lay his hands on. “Okay,” he said quietly, leaning away from his side. “Just. Let me know if I can do anything to help.” Yuuri groaned and turned to his side, that quiet anger finally boiled over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You've done </span>
  <em>
    <span>enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>." Yuuri snapped, his teeth grinding in the back of his mouth. Didn’t Viktor know what he had done? How could he not understand that this was on him as his coach? </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viktor raised an eyebrow at him and the guilt rushed in immediately. Heat flooded into his cheeks at the expression on Viktor’s face, that cold mask he wore when something had truly gone awry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Viktor said coolly, and Yuuri watched that dreaded mask slide over Viktor’s features. He hadn’t seen that mask in over a year, his fiance long abandoning it in favor of his usual puppydog pouts, and wide, shameless smiles. It was wrong, very wrong, the way Viktor leaned away from him. It made his stomach sink into the floor. He shrank back, his heart in his throat, and turned away. He couldn’t look. Not after that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>How was Viktor supposed to know he had felt off and needed a break? Viktor always pushed him. He didn’t allow for slack when he knew Yuuri could work harder. He knew Yuuri’s body better than he knew himself most days. But last week… his spill on the ice just happened to be bad timing for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shake it off. Let’s go again from the top.” Viktor had said, and in retrospect, Yuuri knew he should have said something. The strain in his ankle was far beyond any usual pain, but he skated his Free another three times anyway. His ankle was so swollen and tender that Viktor had to completely unlace his skate to remove it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His prognosis was good, no broken bones or torn ligaments, just a sprain. But Viktor insisted that Yuuri remain on complete rest until he was fully recovered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an impossibly dull month, exasperation and frustration ran high as Yuuri had to adjust his diet to his newly sedentary life. Viktor helped him through easy seated yoga positions and helped him into and out of bed, took him to physical therapy and made most of their meals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should have been grateful for everything Viktor did. He should have apologized. But his stubbornness won out and Viktor stood from his place on the couch and left him instead, the silence only barely cut with the sounds from the TV. He watched Viktor walk into the kitchen, tearing his eyes away before the tears began. He pushed inward, curling his arms around his chest protectively, making himself small yet again. Why was it so hard to ask for help?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And why was it so easy to mess up?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was still half a bottle of red wine in the rack from last night’s dinner, and Viktor uncorked it gratefully. Yuuri had barely touched his food, and with the painkillers he was taking, he wasn’t allowed to drink. Meals were becoming lonelier with Yuuri’s appetite dwindling. Even the bed had become lonely. Yuuri had been staying up later and later, falling asleep on the couch with his leg propped up instead of wrapped in Viktor’s arms like usual.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a moment of quiet, a lull in the movie’s dialogue and music, and Viktor heard a wet sound. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That </span>
  </em>
  <span>sound, Yuuri crying. It felt like he had swallowed a kilo of lead, pulling him under. The next musical number began and Viktor drank too large a sip of his wine. How he managed to drink alone before Yuuri was a mystery now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viktor blew out a shuddered sigh; not even the chipper showtunes made him smile. They had been a comfort in those early years, a sure-fire source of joy before he had noticed his life and love had completely evaporated. Yuuri had opened his phone, the blue light silhouetting his messy hair. How long had it been since he had washed his hair? Yuuri had taken to showering alone, after Viktor helped him in… and usually Viktor washed it for him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The space between them felt like it stretched for miles, an aching chasm that tugged at Viktor’s heart in every ugly way. Even if Viktor knew Yuuri would come around, would pull himself out of this, it hurt. He had never felt so useless.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone vibrated on the counter, buzzing loudly enough that Yuuri heard it from the couch. He jumped and turned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, love.” he apologized, watching Yuuri turn away. His eyes were red behind his glasses, a smudge of wetness ran along the curve of his cheek. He had to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>, anything. He unlocked his phone, surprised to see a message from Phichit. He must have heard about Yuuri… the news had sent a lot of attention their way, positive and negative. (A lot of negative.)</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Yuuri Expert (Phichit)</b>
</p><p>
  <span>hey viktor! is yuuri doing ok?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The name had Viktor chuckling softly, smiling at the memory. Phichit had given him his number after the Cup of China with a warning and a promise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s hard to figure out, he lets himself think too much. Let him come to you.” Phichit had said, speaking with the confidence of knowing Yuuri for years during their time in Detroit. “He’s stubborn and impulsive, and you’re his idol. Treat him right or I </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>leave you floating in the </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chao Phraya</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll do my best,” Viktor had answered then, “Can I text you if I need help?” Phichit laughed and agreed, adding his number to Viktor’s phone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>me</b>
</p><p>
  <span>hi Phichit! um, no, he isn’t :(</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Yuuri Expert (Phichit)</b>
</p><p>
  <span>my yuuri senses were tingling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>what’s up?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>is he sulking again?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was uncanny that Phichit already knew what was happening, but unsurprising, when he considered it. They had spent five years together, training, living together, and in those early years, Yuuri hadn’t yet seen a doctor, or found a therapist. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>me</b>
</p><p>
  <span>yes! 😭😭😭</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I don’t know how to fix it, what do i do</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Yuuri Expert (Phichit)</b>
</p><p>
  <span>you can’t fix it.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>image.jpg</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>but katsudon might help.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuuri gave me this when he moved back home</span>
</p><p>
  <span>and let him come to you. don’t push him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Attached was a photo of a recipe in Yuuri’s handwriting, with some familiar ingredients Viktor recognized from their stay in Hasetsu, during that first season. Yuuri often made traditional Japanese food for them, now that they had moved in together, but Yuuri hadn’t made katsudon in months. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>me</b>
</p><p>
  <span>omg thank you so much</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They chatted for a little while longer as Viktor collected a list of ingredients. Armed with a handful of ideas, Viktor felt a new swell of hope in his chest; he couldn’t be Yuuri’s everything right now, but he could help him with the small things. The telltale snoring on the couch told Viktor that, at least, Makkachin had fallen asleep. Hopefully she was a comforting presence for Yuuri while Viktor kept his distance.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Something sharp tugged at Viktor’s heart, but he pushed it down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Be patient, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he reminded himself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’ll come around again soon.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yuuri?” Viktor asked the following morning, “Would you like to take a bath?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right now?” Yuuri looked up from his breakfast, his brows knotted together in the middle. “It’s barely eleven.” Viktor had let him sleep in much longer than usual, but he could barely remember when he had gone to bed in the first place. Or if he had gone to bed at all.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viktor smiled and nodded, sipping his coffee slowly. “Right now. It’s our day off. I thought you might want to relax and enjoy it.” Yuuri couldn’t get a read on him, but he could rarely do that anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“Our?” </span>
  </em>
  <span>Yuuri asked, finishing his orange juice. A bath sounded lovely, his back was tight and sore in all the worst ways… and it had been almost a week since his last proper bath. It seemed like too much work, and bothering Viktor for his help seemed impossibly selfish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, neither of us is going to the rink today, and you don’t have an appointment, so yes. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Our</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bathroom had been converted into the closest thing to an onsen bath Yuuri had seen since leaving home; the lights were dimmed, soft, relaxing music was playing from some hidden speaker, a cold glass of milk was resting on the lip of the tub.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Viktor, what--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You deserve rest.” Viktor interrupted, dimming the lights further and sitting Yuuri down on the closed toilet. Yuuri let Viktor pull him out of his pajamas, melting with the touch. It was gentle and careful, still just as soft as usual. How he deserved all of this after last night was far beyond him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Moving him to the bath was a bit more awkward than either of them had expected, but they managed it with minimal head-bonking and without more injuries. Tension bled out of every square inch of Yuuri’s body as he sank into the warm water, admiring the tidy row of products to use lined up along the tiled wall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Too hot?” Viktor asked, laying an ice pack over Yuuri’s ankle. Yuuri hummed a soft no, and Viktor pressed a kiss to his big toe. Even when giving Yuuri his space, it was difficult not to kiss him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Text me if you need me,” Viktor said, slipping out of the ensuite. “I love you.” He added softly and headed for the kitchen, where his delivery of groceries was hiding in the fridge and in the pantry. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With Phichit’s recipe and a handful of YouTube tutorials queued up, Viktor began working. The rice was easy enough, it had long since become a staple in their meal plan, and Viktor knew how to work the rice cooker now. (It took a few tries with Yuuri’s supervision.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The broth was easy to make, and with minimal drippiness, Viktor managed to whisk it all together according to recipe. A small shiver ran down his spine at the hearty smell of it; it reminded him of Hasetsu, of the first place he had been able to call home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t help but snap a few photos of his progress, sending them to both Phichit and Hiroko, feeling warm down to his toes when both replied with excited compliments. Cutting the onions was second nature by this point, he had been making his own meals for years before Yuuri. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had never made himself fried </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, however.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fried foods were absolutely on the forbidden list, but for Yuuri, he would gladly break every rule. Yakov could pry Yuuri’s comfort food from Viktor’s cold, dead hands. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watched the same minute of a tutorial five times, googled ‘how hot to make frying oil’ in multiple languages, panicked about uncooked eggs twice, and nearly threw it all away and called for takeout instead. He yelped when his messily breaded pork cutlet splashed a little bit of oil onto his apron, and thanked himself for putting it on in the first place. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a gift from Chris, after being horrified by the harrowing tale of the bacon grease incident… Viktor would never cook nude again. The smell of it was lovely, and it greeted Viktor’s nose like an old friend. Makkachin was very interested by the new smells, and had taken her spot by Viktor’s feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not for doggies,” Viktor teased, flipping the cutlet and listening to it sizzle with pride. He fed Makkachin a treat from the poodle-shaped jar on the counter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuuri stared at his phone, photos from costume fittings, early designs and plans for his routines now on indefinite hold. The water was getting cold, his hands were shaking. He should have told Viktor he needed a break. He should have apologized last night, he shouldn’t have snapped. Angry tears rolled down his cheeks and into the bath, his thumb hovered over the messages icon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>me </b>
</p><p>
  <span>help please</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Viktor had just finished cutting the tonkatsu when Yuuri’s message came through and he nearly dropped his knife. He all but ran down the hall and into the bathroom, finding Yuuri, shivering and teary.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vitya,” Yuuri began, his voice hoarse and exhausted. “Vitya, I…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viktor nearly dropped his phone on the tile in his scramble to help Yuuri up. He was shaking, Viktor hated himself for not checking in sooner.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” they said, in unison, as Viktor threw a thick, oversized towel around his shoulders. Yuuri had rubbed his eyes red, angry and irritated in a way that Viktor hated to see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” Yuuri continued, weak and trembling, “I’m sorry I snapped at you, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you to stop, when I got hurt, I… I,” his voice wavered and Viktor’s heart shattered again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, love,” Viktor whispered and pulled him in, wrapping his arms around him without a second’s delay. “I forgive you, and I’m sorry for pushing you too far.” He held Yuuri there, in the bathroom, cold tile beneath their feet, for long enough that his legs began to tingle with disuse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get you into something clean,” Viktor whispered against Yuuri’s hair, kissing his temple and feeling the rattly, exhausted breath Yuuri let out against his throat. He helped Yuuri into the bedroom, eased him into a clean pair of sweatpants and a borrowed t-shirt that swallowed him up wonderfully. Viktor carefully combed through his wet hair, working the tangles out gently. It was a miracle he didn’t fall asleep, leaned against Viktor’s chest like that. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I have a surprise for you, if you’re hungry.” Viktor whispered, wrapping a throw blanket around Yuuri’s shoulders. For the first time in what felt like years, Yuuri’s stomach growled and he nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Surprise?” he managed, his throat sore and raw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mhm. I made you something yummy.” Viktor answered, kneeling at Yuuri’s feet and re-wrapping his ankle. “The swelling is going down, bruising is still pretty… uh. Purpley.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuuri laughed, a watery thing in his throat. “That’s not a word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes it is,” Viktor replied with a wide smile. “I just made it up. Purpley. It’s an adverb.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s an adjective.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Same thing, English is the worst. Surprise time!” He carried Yuuri into the kitchen with surprising ease and helped him into a chair at the counter, all of the kitchen for Yuuri to see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re making katsudon?” Yuuri asked, spotting the fried pork cutlet, the rice cooker left on </span>
  <em>
    <span>Keep Warm</span>
  </em>
  <span> mode. “Did you… that’s okaasan’s recipe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Viktor nodded, firing up the burner again. Yuuri watched everything come together, just like his mother did at home. It smelled like heaven, and watching Viktor make it was just as lovely. The bowl was perfect when Viktor slid it across the counter, the aroma so warm and comforting that it melted away any of the chill still lingering in his bones. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You made this for me.” Yuuri marveled after he had finished every bite of it. “After I was awful to you.”</span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“I thought it might help,” Viktor explained, finishing off his own serving. “You needed space, and after you had your space, you came back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Yuuri felt himself welling up again, and Viktor was there to hold him when he did. “I’ll always come back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’ll always be waiting for you, </span>
  <em>
    <span>lyubov moya</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thank you for reading, beautiful person. take care of yourself today. </p><p>&lt;3 ia<br/><a href="https://twitter.com/ia_theauthor"> Twitter</a> | <a href="https://incandescentantelope.tumblr.com">Tumblr</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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